Chapter Eighteen Eugene #3
Rapunzel’s smile returns again, bright as the sun. She plucks the canapé catastrophe from his grasp, tosses it with impressive aim into a nearby decorative urn, and then takes his hands in hers. “Good, because I think I’m starting to feel like I belong too. But I wouldn’t without you.”
For a moment, Eugene forgets about everything but the relief of having a path under his feet again, and the girl he’d climb a thousand towers for there for the journey.
Then she huffs a laugh and nudges him. “Speaking of Cressien…I wonder if he’s going to try to get us to stay here longer, too.”
Eugene follows her gaze to the minister, who’s almost a little too engrossed in debate with…
Hughes? If he strains, he can pick out fragments of the exchange, and Eugene can say with confidence that it’s the first time he’s heard anyone flirt over things like export fees and cargo regulations.
“Good for him. Didn’t your mother say something about him and his husband splitting? ”
“I think so.”
Eugene cups his cheek. “This may be the most romantic diplomatic summit I’ve ever witnessed.”
Rapunzel cocks her head to the side. “How many have you witnessed?”
Before he has to answer that, there’s a commotion on the dais. Verette, rigid, steps to the side as Enver plants himself in her previous spot before the throne.
Rumbles rise from the guests, who have already started queueing up for the issuing of invitations. Eugene’s jaw clenches. If this is so unusual—maybe—maybe Verette was right, maybe he’s pushing Eugene to stay so she has allies, maybe this is it—
The hush that falls over the hall says he’s not the only one dangling in anticipation.
“My esteemed guests,” Enver begins, spreading his hands, “I wanted to take a moment to share a few words about my remarkable daughter. I’m so proud to have raised such a strong, lovely, and intelligent young woman, and I am confident she will be the leader Astera needs…
” He turns to Verette, who presses her lips into a tight smile. “…when the time is right.”
Rapunzel audibly sucks in a breath.
“And like all of you, I very much look forward to that day’s arrival,” Enver blithely carries on as a crackling tension rips through the hall. “For many years now, I’ve watched her grow….”
He’s keeping the throne. Again. Even if Eugene couldn’t tell from the avoidance in Enver’s words, he can see it written plain as day on the faces around them.
And, most alarmingly, on Verette’s as well.
Behind the mask of demure politesse, through the droning, empty praise, her cheeks burn, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.
Then Verette does the unexpected. She brushes past Enver, down the steps, into the parting crowd, as her father’s voice falters. Not once does she look back, marching in a perfect, unwavering line, until she’s left the hall entirely.
Eugene can’t believe he ever even hoped he could be the son of this king.
Murmurs boil over as Enver says, unsteady for the first time, “She—she wasn’t feeling well earlier—must be an upset stomach.”
Eugene glances back at him to find the king brushing his own belly with a stiff smile. It fractures into a lightning-fast flinch: Enver’s lips part briefly, his eyes unfocused—and then he gathers himself once more.
“Teophine,” Enver says shortly, jerking his chin in the direction Verette went. Councilor Teophine bows and weaves her way through the attendees.
Rapunzel quickly passes Pascal over to Eugene, then announces loudly, “I’ll go with her.” Before Enver can object, she’s already fallen into step with Councilor Teophine, nearly out of the hall.
Eugene swallows. That was the signal; Plan B has officially been scrapped.
Plan A-for-Apple is in motion.
Enver’s words turn forcedly smooth. “Please, everyone, keep enjoying yourselves. We’ll do the invitations later, if Verette’s up to it. Thank you all for joining us tonight.”
Then he hurries off the dais.
Eugene’s eyes narrow. He’s watching Enver’s hands again, because that’s where he betrayed himself before.
And this time, Eugene would swear that on the king’s fingertips, he can see a smudge of…red.
The memory slides like cold steel into his gut. A knife. Pain exploding below his ribs. Crashing to the stone floor of Gothel’s tower.
His own shaking hand, stained with the same vivid red.
And another memory, this from just a few days ago, returns: Enver reaching for the same place on his stomach when he thought the People’s Dagger had crashed the reception ball.
And another: Sulian saying Torch swears it was all planned. That she got him in the belly.
And another: Teophine saying the starlight water alone isn’t enough to heal a mortal wound.
It finally snaps into place.
Enver and Eugene have something in common after all: a killing blow they never should have survived. But Eugene’s healed for good.
Enver’s didn’t.
The apples aren’t just keeping him young, like Gothel.
They’re keeping the king alive.
Just then, Eugene has one more realization, perhaps even more dangerous: Pascal is nowhere to be found.